Remnant
by My Vantilene
Summary: Giftfic. Natalie Long is looking for answers about her "deceased" dad and his alleged "death" and she'll stop at nothing to get them. But what happens when her crush from school and a suspicious aunt gets involved?


Disclaimer: What are you talking about? I _am _Jeff Goode!

The five o'clock subway was running a little late, and the bells and chimes of the station rang impatiently with anticipation. I supported my pink and green, Nike sneaker on a cement bench as I bent over and tied my laces. I tugged on the knot to make sure it would stay, and took my foot off of where people were supposed to be sitting. The five o'clock subway bustles in and hurried businessmen and other late members of the working class push and shove their ways in. The sea of people is billowing and crashing down around me in waves. It starts to get hard to breathe as other people push past me or push me out of their way flat-out. Some stuffed suit shoves me to the ground, my blonde curls and crimson-died tips whipping around to smack him in the face. Not that I did it on purpose, of course. Okay, maybe a little on purpose. But that was nothing. Someone had to teach this guy he couldn't treat a lady like that.

"Tail of the dragon." I muttered underneath my breath, stretching a green tail out to trip the guy. With a satisfying _thud _the man fell flat on his face. He turned around accusingly and gruffly muttered something under his breath when he saw that no one was to blame around him but the overwhelming flow of subway riders making their way to their destination. Then some other guy pushes me to the floor again, but I let it slide. Guess I can't punish them all. Though the way they behave, so selfish and narcissistic, is just unbelievable. I slip around people so I don't have to physically confront them, plug my head phones into my ears that blast Relient K music, and make my way to the back alley way, that elevates to the city of New York above.

I don't really get people. They're all one-tracked minded, with that one track being all about themselves. Why can't they see the repercussions of their deeds done out of self-interest? They're cannibals, just climbing over each other to get to a less-than-satisfying top. What's sad is sometimes they're not even aiming for anything, they're just internally angry and rude, like it's coded in their DNA or something. I reassure myself I'm only half human when critiquing the race.

Once I finally get to the top level, where the streets and apartments house and transport more of the infernal bottomless pits, I can finally get on my skateboard and cause some real mayhem. As I fly by shocked and outraged civilians, my green jacket with the pink lining and pockets flow out behind me like a cape. I raise my arms in a cheap King of the World bit and all I can feel is the air swishing around me. Fu's shop gets closer and closer to me and I smile with relief. Finally I can escape momentarily from the demanding and overpopulated city. A round off a stop and as the skateboard skids, I kick it up in the air and catch it as I land on my feet. A clear _cling _from the bell above the door heralds my arrival and I call Fu's name to see if he's home. He comes out from behind a counter and frowns at me.

"What's that on your jacket?" he questions like an uptight mom who's interrogating about a night spent alone with a boy. Ever since mom left on that expedition, he's been more and more overprotective and less and less of a party-savvy, garbage disposal dog-pimp. Of course mom would come back safely, she always did. There was no need for him to act in her place when she'd be back to fill her place any day now.

I turn to see the singed material draping around my shoulder, where a smoldering whole had torn my jacket.

"There was trouble after school today. Some fire goblin problem I totally handled." He crossed his arms. After a few seconds, I couldn't take his glare anymore.  
"Whaaaat?" I groaned, taking off the jacket to reveal my gold undershirt.

"You should've called me. You know you're not supposed to be doing that."

"Why? So you can humor them with your old war stories and I don't know — maybe sit on them?"

He calmly took the insult with grace, something I'd never seen him do in all of my thirteen years of life.

"I may not be a very good fighter, but know that I'll always be there for you, Natalie."

"Why are you doing this? Acting like you're my parent or something? I thought the pity boat had already sailed. Jake left a long time ago, and I'm completely fine with it."

"Your father did not leave you. I know he wanted nothing more than to see you grow up. But the fact of the matter is life's not fair. If he was alive, I'm sure there would be nothing he wouldn't do for you."

I rested my green skateboard with the pink dragon on it down underneath the coat rack and turned up the music on my iPod. I really didn't need to listen to another one of his rants about hope or integrity or what could have been if Jake was still alive. Some people find it improper that I call my bio-dad by his first name. I find it perfectly natural. He never was my dad, and he never will be. And no, I don't think badly of him. I just understand that he never really was that role for me, it's not his fault he died a few years after I was born, but life is life and I just don't think of him in a the-father-I-could-have-had way. I think of him how photographs, old e-mails, letters, and skateboarding championship articles perceive him to be. Wild and carefree, so full of life and — well, I'm not going to get too sentimental. I'm too busy with photography club, art club, drama club, guitar lessons, skateboarding, beta club, debate club, covert dragon training and all of my other miscellaneous hobbies on the side to concern myself with thinking about my dad like he's actually coming back or something. Now, when I find a rare moment for myself, it's normally spent worrying about when my mother will come home next. _If _she comes home.

Fu tries to hide the fact my mom has picked back up her morally gray means of occupation, but nothing gets past me. I know she's been bounty hunting again, and I can't say I blame her. Her old job as a mail clerk didn't necessarily put bread on the table. But she thinks I'm too fragile to understand. That's why I'm not allowed to dragon train with a master. I'm not even supposed to go dragon at all, all of my training has been done on my own secretly. No one wants me getting killed like Jake.

"Natalie Abigail Long." He says all salty, his hands on his hips like he's my mom again, "Are you listening?"

"I don't know, _Mom_, if I'm not, what are you going to do, send me to my room?"

He solemnly pointed to the door behind him.

"Fine!" I yell as I brush past him and into my room, the one that used to be our living room and flop down on the couch. Yeah, I'm going to regret it in the morning, but there's no use being emotional about it now. The music in my ears is just enough to distract me from his incessant rants about how unruly I am to manage. I smile, because he's probably right.

A banging from outside the electronic shop's back door rattles me awake from my thoughts. I stay quiet and crouch behind the door to eavesdrop, because if I were to get into any more dragon business tonight, Fu would have my head mounted on his wall, slippers made out of my pelt, and sell the remains of my corpse to some necrophilia sycophants. Or science. Whichever contact came up first in his phone.

"Ear of the dragon." I whispered. The ear sprouted and I could here a commotion. A kick here, a punch there, a few murmurs of threats underneath someone's breath, and finally, an ear-piercing ring of a gun being fired. A doubled over on the floor, and quickly transitioned my ears back to normal, and felt the blood gushing out in spades. I tried my best not to yelp, knowing that if there was any commotion, Fu would be on it like Captain Crunch on a cereal box.

But it was the gun that surprised me the most of what I heard. No one in the magical back allies would ever use a gun. That was the uncivil weapon of a pure-bred human. Even my mom and the clan she was forced to serve didn't use the dastardly weapon. They made a fight less fair, or too quick, and in some cases, less fun. It could be a gang, but all the gang activity was concentrated in Harlem, not in the infamous Manhatttan.

I muttered a healing spell. It seemed to do the trick.

I didn't convert my ear again, in fear of what else I might hear, but I kept them sharp, and as heightened as I could without transforming. All of the noises seem to have died down, so I cautiously opened the door to see if there's any crime scene leftover to investigate. A dark maroon streak of fluid skids off behind the fence blocking off one of the forking paths to another back alley. That's the one alley I don't skateboard down. There are iridescent footprints leading down the alley and turning the corner. In the blood, there's not a footprint, but a distorted form of one, that looks more like a deteriorated circle than anything else. He/she must've gotten away by flying. I say this in confidence because I know by the iridescent footprints this was no mundane drug deal gone wrong. Whoever had flown away, flown away with a bullet in their chest, I'd wager. I perused the scene for any more evidence, whipping out my camera to take pictures of the obscured footprint and the luminescent ones. After searching through all of the dirt, grime, and asphalt, I didn't think I could find another scrap of evidence. But then I saw it. The black lock of hair was lodged betwixt the fence and the brick building sides of other New Yorkian apartments. I pulled it out, careful not to rip or tear the evidence, but once it's in my hands, I can see more of it. It's coal-black, charred with green at the ends.

* * *

I sat on the couch, the lock of hair interchanging between my two fingers as I twirled it. My eyes moved from the strands, to the photograph in my other hand.

I'm not one of those sappy girls who put their deceased dad's picture underneath their pillow, as if hoping the Tooth Fairy will come at night and replace it with the real thing. Besides, with that frame underneath my pillow, I wouldn't even be able to sleep. I'm not one of those sentimental girls who refuse to let go, that sleep with it in their hands, or sewn into their pillows, "supposedly" feeling his presence in their dreams, or wish for that one day to come where they find out that their dad was always alive and just waiting for the right time to save them from their horridly _drab_ life and take them away on an adventure. Even though I really do have the best probability of that happening. I'm not even one of those practical girls who keep it in a picture frame, who glance at it maybe once or twice a month as a solid reminder. I kept it underneath by bed because I — well, I had just kind of forgotten about it. It took me forever to remember where I had put it, but I needed it because I wasn't sure if it was his hair or not. But looking at this photo, the strands are clearly similar.

As I make the repetitive rounds of transitioning my eyes from one object to the other, my eyes linger on the picture for longer than they should have. I like to remember him like the way he is preserved in the photo, I realize. I didn't think I ever gave it much thought, but to know that he died without having to go through what my great grandpa had gone through, or at least what he had gone through in the stories Fu tells me about him, gives me a sort of peace, like he's immortally a vivid, just-married eighteen-year-old. The photo itself was taken at Jake and my mom's wedding. He had broad shoulders and thick arms that wrapped around my mom like a gentle boa constrictor, nicely toned legs that are noticeable even with the black tuxedo, his almond-shaped eyes seem to be placed strategically above his cheek bones, that are supported by his jaw line and other strong bone structural features, and capture the light in a euphoric radiance. He just looked so elated. My mom looks happy too, and she doesn't have any bags under her eyes, which is another reason I like the photo. And she has the most dazzling smile that she never smiles anymore. In this one snapshot, one precious moment of time fixed in ink, she's happier than I've ever seen her in my entire life. I think that's maybe why maintaining it slipped my mind. I didn't want to be reminded of what could never be mine.

But this single lock of hair could change all that. If he's out there…alive…

An overpowering sensation rips through my chest and I'm immediately curling in towards the couch as an attempt to block out whatever it was. It was a feeling of push and pull, a tug-of-war game going on inside me. Or like there's a strong magnet in my chest, and someone has the other half, trying to pull me towards them, but I'm not moving at all. It's all inward. I scratch across the front of my gold undershirt, hopping that maybe whatever freaky occurrence that had just happened could be reversed. But it doesn't go away, and after a time of trying to squirm out of its grasp, I feel a tantalizing sensation for it to happen again, but, almost as soon as I have that tiny change of heart, it ends and I can't feel anything. But I want that feeling again, like someone injected the most addictive, illegal drug into my system that pained me, but I craved it all the same. Feverishly, I jumped off the couch, being willed by a sudden and new hunger that pulsed through my veins and made me breathe harder. I opened up the glass door to a wooden cabinet, and grabbed some of the tapes that are being stored inside. I hurriedly shove them into the mouth of a cassette tape-player and listen for the sound. My starving ears ring with delight at the coming voices, and I'm left in a state of panic and awe.

"Why do you want me for this? Why not my sister? Why pick me when she's perfect. And available." The voice is dynamic, yet it has a static edge to it, none of which is the effect of the old cassette player. I'm enthralled from the very beginning, and a second voice enters the picture, making it all the more satisfying for me.

"We need you because of your…_resourcefulness_." The dark, ominous voice stated.

"She's more resourceful than I am…you of all people should know that. You want me because I'm incompetent, easy to trick, and easy to overpower when you're through with me."

"Oh? Now where would you get that idea?"

"It's what everybody does nowadays."

"So, you're not going to accept my offer? You know you can trust me. I have nothing to gain from your death, and you have nothing to gain from mine. After this one job is through, I'll return you to your family with more money than that useless, dead-end job will ever provide."

"Fine. But I'm going to need more information and to talk with her."

"Done. Just meet be by the —" the tape went dead.

I savor the leftovers of my oral meal like a little kid licking a bowl of chocolate ice cream clean. After I run it over it my mind, the taste still fresh there, my recon skills I've inherited and/or picked up from watching my mom kick in, and I know exactly where to go.

I'm going to visit the American Dragon, Haley Long.

* * *

It's a long while until I hear Fu snoring, indicating it's safe to sneak out now. But I glance over my news feed on Facebook one more time before heading out. It's what I've been doing to pass the time ever since I realized that I had to go tonight with her on patrol to be able to meet with her at all. She's a little busy with her Nobel Peace Prize winner-interview. And promoting her book. And dancing in international recitals. And signing contracts to be on commercials. And donating her own pieces to art galleries. And basically fixing Einstein's theory on top of everything else. Long story short, she's too successful to play aunt with me. I've met her maybe once or twice, but I hear about her in the papers and new reports and everyone at school who pesters me about how well I know her. I simply tell them I don't, they must've gotten it wrong, because we're obviously not related. Besides, I didn't exactly look like the Asian-American I am, save for maybe my almond-shaped eyes.

I realize I'm rambling. But, yeah, I was on Facebook, and it's funny how it just-so-happens to show more of my crush's statuses than anyone else on the news feed. It's like Mark Zuckerburg just _knows _I like Zack.

Now, I'm not going back on what I said earlier, about humans being an incredulously selfish species, but I feel like he's the exception, not the rule. He gives most people the cold shoulder, and he was a tough cookie to crack, but I finally got a glimpse of who he was behind that apathetic mask. It was a few weeks ago, at our Homecoming dance. I saw him outside, in the Zen garden at the center of our school, wearing a dark tux, his black, shaggy hair combed back for once. Normally when you think of someone with their hair combed back, the image of the classic nerd may come to mind, but he is no where near that realm of description. He looks utterly perfect with acid green eyes, crowned with a creased and frustrated brow. I hear a noise, and I realize there are tears in his eyes. I was wearing a ripped (dragon business won't even leave me alone for a crummy school dance) cyan dress, those ones that spread out and become poofy once divided at mid-waist, but it's not long now, after being damaged in combat, it's ripped kind of fashionably, actually, to show off my toned legs. Not that I'm _that _kind of person, I just happen to notice what he probably saw when he looked at me. And I think he liked what he saw, because when I came closer and sat down next to him, he didn't shoo me away like an unwanted pest. He ends up confessing to me about his background, his runaway-mom, dying dad, and already dead little sister. It's just become so much for him and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to trust again. I don't know why he opened up to me, but I feel like I get him, and I'm glad there's something underneath that flawless skin of his. I take him to get something to eat because he has very little pocket money, so much so that he has to fix roofs and paint houses and do other miscellaneous and odd jobs just to get by. He ends up confessing there's something in my eyes, in my placating touch that made him trust me, and it's very out of character for him to do something that naïve, but he doesn't regret his decision, for that, I'm glad. But now, every time I see him, I'm floundering like a fish out of water, and he's acting like that night never happened. That I didn't see a person underneath all of that black leather and those hair-covered eyes. That there wasn't something he saw in me as well.

And I feel pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. And I know he's having a party with the rest of his crowd that I would probably be shot if I went to tonight. In all actuality, it's probably going on right now. And all I'm doing is sitting here, being pathetic.

All my days are spent doing secret dragon business, ignoring pity, ignoring all people in general, and secretly crushing over him. Why? Because he's the only human I've ever seen that hasn't lied to themselves about who they are, the only one who's _real_, that is kind and sweet and gentle, but has a darker resolve within that's just crying out for any kind of help. And being the way I am, I can't ignore a cry for help.

Well, right now is the exception, not the rule. I have to talk to Haley. So, I rip my eyes from his carefree statuses that are obviously a cover, and proceed out of the house without a sound, not wanting to disturb Fu's peaceful rest.

It's a while of flying behind the guise of the midnight clouds before I spot her, taking down some goblins who have stolen another pixie. It's just the usual hero work, so, I decide, I can talk to her while she's working, maybe even take out a goblin or two by her side. I swoop down and punch one straight in the face and it goes flying backward. I turn to Haley and smile,

"Long time no see, Auntie."

"Natalie!" her eyes get wide, "What are you doing _here_?" she inquires as she takes down another of the goblin swarm.

"I need to ask you some questions."

"About…?"

"Jake."

She does three goblins in at once, obviously goaded that I even bothered to ask.

"Listen, sweetie, that's — now's not a good time, okay?"

"Just tell me. I'm not leaving until you answer my questions. Was Jake working for anyone before he died?"

"Seriously, Natalie, are you sure you want to talk to me about this now?"

"Fine then. I'll fight with you, and then afterwards we'll talk. I know a good diner down the street, not too far from here, and if you wink just the right way, you get your meal for free."

"Ugh," she grunts as she takes on a few more of them, "What has Fu been teaching you? I swear, that dog is the most irresponsible and lazy mutt on this planet!"

"Fu didn't teach me that trick. He's actually been pretty solid in the responsible department lately. A little too solid for my taste."

"Well, it's nice to see he's finally taking an initiative. The only other thing I've ever seen him do with much vigor is partying."

"Trust me, it's not nice." I finish off the last goblin and turn to her.

"Come on, I'll show you the way." We both power down to our human forms and it's a nice walk through Central Park for the most part. We get to the diner earlier than I expected, and she doesn't let me do the trick. She says it's not "lady-like to sell yourself like that." I just roll my eyes and let her pay for the Boston crème pie I order. But I guess it's fair, since the waiter brings around two spoons for the dessert. She takes pea-sized bites every minute, while I'm basically eating half of it in a matter of a few milliseconds. Hey, I'm a growing girl, after all. After we're finished with the pie, which was clearly just a distraction for me so I wouldn't have to ask about Jake so soon. I stare at her inquisitively, and she gets the message.

"It was a few years ago, Jake was eighteen and I was twelve. We were at the annual Dragon Council meeting. Jake messed up severely, shaming him and our country. I stepped in and salvaged what was left of their opinion, good or bad, for America. They deemed me the American Dragon, and Jake stormed off. I really hadn't seen him for quite some time after that. I miss him. A lot. He probably just remembers me how I was, that conniving and overly prideful little sister he loathed. But I'm more than that now." She stared at her distorted reflection on the surface of the salt shaker and sighed.

"I just wish he could know that. That I'm sorry for everything when we were kids. He's my brother, and I love him. But I guess he was just sick of my over-achieving self. I mean, if I were him, I'd hate having a younger sibling that, no matter what I did, one-upped me. And, truth be told, they liked me as the American Dragon better. But after a year of him and Rose just dropping off the face of the Earth, I didn't want to be the American Dragon anymore. It was Jake's thing. It was the one thing, besides skateboarding, that he was actually good at. And I took that away from him. I felt horrible about the whole thing, so I went to the Dragon Council and beseeched them for Jake to have his position back. I reasoned that, while I could make a living without being the American Dragon, Jake probably would struggle with the unemployment rate being how it is today. But they simply refused. Apparently I was just too _perfect _for the job." She spat, her voice laced with her own self-hatred, "After a few months, I got news on Jake. He had sent Mom a letter. Apparently, he ran away with Rose to the Bahamas and they married. See, he made a wish a long time ago with the Crystal Skulls that Rose was never taken by the Huntsclan. I'm sure your mother has told you the story a thousand times. They met in Hong Kong and after she saw the picture of the two of them at Homecoming, everything came flooding back. Including her old life. The wish was undone and all of the Huntsclan came back just because of their strong love for each other had, in a sense, broken the spell. It's really beautiful if you think about it. So after their Honeymoon, they went after all of the Huntsclan and destroyed every last member. Save 88 and 89, they weren't really a threat. I didn't get any letters or calls or even texts from him after that one letter, which wasn't really addressed to me, so I don't know anything besides that. Last I've ever heard his name mentioned was at his funeral a couple years back. Why do you want to know all about this now? You've never really cared for his side of the family before." She looked me up and down suspiciously and I coolly replied,

"I just realize that I can't run from this forever. I have to embrace it sometime, so why not now?"

"Well, telling by that fight, I'd say you've embraced it pretty well." We talk for a while after that about the weather, and say our goodbyes and she continues her patrol and I sneak my way back into my house. But I know there's something she didn't tell me. I also know that I'm following somebody's still-warm footsteps, and I'll bet fifty bucks I know who they belong to.

_AN:_

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